An Inconvenient Arrangement

Chapter 17: Rafe & Sylvie

The room was dark and putrid as if it had been weeks since it had been cleaned out. Perhaps it was the case, after all the only time Rafe got cleaned was when they tossed cold water at him to make sure he was awake. If it weren't for that, his shirt would likely be crusted by his own vomit by now.

"Please. Please kill me. I don't know anything."

The sound of leather against the cobblestones had Rafe's gut roiling again. He knew who these footsteps belonged to. It was always the Capitaine that was the worst of his interrogators. He had broken Rafe's fingers last time. He knew the questions by heart now, spoken sometimes in French, sometimes in English in an effort to make him slip his cover. He would have to respond in English just once to seal his fate.

Who is your contact?

Qui est votre contact?

What were the chances they would kill him quickly?

Infinitesimal.

'I don't know,' Rafe replied in French, his accent indiscernible from a native's. He needed to keep the charade up until they sent someone to rescue him. Or until they killed him at long last.

He wasn't sure how long he could keep holding on. Perhaps they had no reason to come for him. He had disobeyed orders to come after Thomas. They had told him that rescue was too risky, but he had gone off anyway. And he had gotten caught.

Did Thomas even manage to get out or was he lying somewhere, dead?

The Capitaine grabbed Rafe's head by fisting a hand in his hair and holding his head under the tub of water. Rafe's starved body couldn't even muster the strength to fight.

How many of you are there?

Combien d'entre vous sont ici?

'I don't know. My name is Jean-Pierre. I am from Marseilles. This is a mistake.'

This time the Capitaine held his head under until he fainted. Harsh slaps to his face brought him back to life.

You won't talk, English pig?

Tu ne veux pas parler, espèce de porc d'anglais? 

'I don't know what you are talking about. I am a civilian, please. I am French. Let me go, I won't tell anyone.'

Rafe felt his body hit the floor, his palm grazed the hilt of something. Something sharp.

A knife.

No, wait. There hadn't been a knife that day, had it? How would he have grabbed it, anyway? His fingers had been broken. No, he was dreaming again.

The Capitaine grabbed his head again, but Rafe lunged. He rolled the Capitaine under him with a sudden show of force, placing the knife at his throat, poised to drag it across the vulnerable flesh. Something dark and vindictive inside him wanted to relish the way red would spill over the Frenchman's skin. To make it slow and painful.

Reality crashed in as he took heaving breaths. He had managed to get himself in a sitting position. The softness of the mattress and the light streaming through the window brought Rafe back to the present.

He was not still in Belgium. He was back home. In England.

He was holding the knife he kept under his pillow in his hand.

He was holding it....against Sylvie's throat. 

A small line of blood welled along the edge of the knife and Rafe lost his mind entirely. An animal sound of anguish tore through him as he flung his knife away, it clattered somewhere on the floor but he was too busy cupping Sylvie's face in his hands.